


Our Love Is Art

by ohHOLYmoves



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Deceptively fluffy, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohHOLYmoves/pseuds/ohHOLYmoves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is an artist who sees the beauty in the world that most people don't. Lexa is her girlfriend and she really doesn't get the whole art thing. But she tries for Clarke's sake. However, she can't and won't get it when Clarke hangs up a picture of her naked in their bed and tries to call it art. </p><p>Or </p><p>The one where Clarke is pretty persuasive and Lexa is just so in love</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Love Is Art

When she woke up to an empty tequila bottle to the left of her, Clarke's Cannon SLR to the right, and her nude between the two, she knew last night had been one of their weird ones. Weird didn't always sum it up but it was the only way Lexa usually knew how to when she woke with a monster of a hangover and wearing nothing but their sheets. Like this particular morning. Really, she should have expected this when Clarke had insisted they have their date night at home instead of going out. Despite them being late into their 20's, far from their college years, and dutifully drudging through adulthood, Clarke still liked to have the occasional wild night. This always, somehow, ended with Lexa waking up this way. Last time it had been to a forest drawn in sharpie from her finger tips to her shoulders and a night sky across her rib cage. At school her students had made comments about the fading ink and she had no other choice but to give them stern glares or else she'd blush herself into an early grave. The time before that, it was on the couch with Clarke's hands literally glued to her breasts. They had drank way, way to much that night and neither of them to this day remember how or what happened that lead up to the introduction of super glue. This time was by far the worst though.

See, her girlfriend was an artist and she frequently got inspiration from the most random of things. In fact, they met because Clarke had been inside a café that was also a library, sketching her coffee that had spilled across the table. Her focus remained steadfast on the layer of tan liquid seeping across the tabletop. Not even blinking at the fact that it had begun to drip off the edge into her lap. Lexa had been so enamored by her she had walked over with an offering of napkins and curious questions. Clarke didn't seem bothered by Lexa's interest in her strangeness and instead explained that she spilled her drink and simply couldn't touch it. 'The light,' she had said softly as she smudged the graphite from the pencil with her thumb tip, 'it caught the cup and the coffee when it fell over and that caught me. I didn't want to clean it up until I finished drawing it. It's pretty, isn't it?'. She had made a sweeping gesture towards the spilled drink and Lexa, ever the logical stick-in-the-mud, had shook her head. 'It's a mess' she had told Clarke in her careful, near monotone voice. Clarke, again, didn't seem fazed by Lexa's skepticism. She had given Lexa the first of many of her bright, lovely smiles and invited Lexa to sit with her. 'Maybe. But that's the thing about art. Not everyone sees what the artists sees. It's all interpretation. Art is…it's a visual story. That's why I come here, between classes or when I have free time, to draw. This is a place people come to for stories and warm, tasty things to consume. And that's what art is to me. Does that make sense?' It hadn't. Lexa didn't get art. She was a historian. But Clarke, Clarke had made perfect sense to her. She saw history to be made in Clarke's smile and her enthusiasm about her art. Art that gave her a passion to find beauty in nearly everything, to draw from almost anyone, to love all that was around her. When alcohol was introduced, like on their Wild At Home Date Nights, Clarke's inner artist got a little out of control and it usually always ended badly for Lexa.

That's why she knew that when she woke up that this time the story would be no different. Not even that calming presence of mind prepared her for what it actually was, however. Nothing could have.

After sitting up and swallowing down the quick rise of nausea she did a quick check of herself. Nothing abstract to be found in way of marker, paint, or glue, thank god. Which meant whatever has happened, happened somewhere else in their loft. And, since Clarke was not in bed beside her, presumably Clarke could be found at the scene of the crime. So she climbed from bed slowly and with a lot of cursing (her head must have been invaded by a host of drummers) to locate some clothes. Rather, the large ugly sweater of Clarke's lying on the floor near their bed. It was absurdly long on Clarke but fell to mid thigh on her. Not that she wore it often, mind, she hated it. It was hideous. All ratty and paint splattered. She hooked her fingers around the comforter that had been kicked to floor last night and draped it across her shoulders because it was freezing—they must not have turned the heat on before bed—and ventured from their cozy room to locate her girlfriend. And whatever it would be this time.

The light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room felt like daggers through the eyes so she was grateful to not find Clarke with it there. Neither was she in the bathroom also composed mostly of light-letting windows that agitated her hangover. The kitchen and Clarke's studio were sans Clarke as well, leaving one room left in the loft. Her office. And, after peeking into the room, there she was. She too was wrapped in a blanket-shawl to fight the cold but was sitting atop Lexa's ornate wooden desk to save her bare feet from the hardwood floor below. Her sandy blond hair was pulled up into a messy bun atop her head, baring her slender neck blemished by love marks Lexa must have put there last night. Her attention was primarily on the wall to the left of the desk so she did not notice Lexa's presence until she was standing near her.

That was when Lexa saw _it_.

It wasn't framed, because they had been drunk and not really prepared, but it had been hung up on her wall regardless. With what looked like scotch tape that didn't want to stick to the redbrick wall very well. All that didn't bother her much. The photo—it was a photo this time which explained the camera—the photo however, did bother her. It was a photo of Lexa lying on her back, in their bed, naked as she had been when she woke this morning. Except she wasn't just naked. Her back was arched. Her head was tilted back, throat exposed, lips parted in a silent moan and her dark eyes lidded and fixated on Clarke behind the camera. Her shoulders were pressed down into the mattress, pushing her breasts forward towards Clarke. Her hips were lifted a few inches from the mattress and twisted at an angle. Her thighs were parted for Clarke whose knees appeared at the edges of the shot. Between them was the pale inside of Clarke's wrist and her closed fist save the two fingers pushed deeply into Lexa. Nothing could be made out of that except the straining of muscles in Clarke's wrist and the sparse patch of wiry hair covering Lexa's mound. Her own hand was raking across her stomach, leaving behind vibrant red trails. The other she held against her cheek, near her mouth, her thumb pressed to her bottom lip.

Clarke had taken a picture of her last night mid-orgasm and printed it off and hung it in her office.

"Oh my god." She choked out, unable to say much else. Because she was looking at her own face, into her own eyes, mid-orgasm.

"I know," Clarke whispered beside her, awe lacing her husky voice, "I woke up and it took me a while to remember what happened. There are, like, 60 other pictures in my studio laying all over the place. But this one—oh my god, Lexa, this one. I love it more than _anything_ else I've ever done. It's _beautiful_."

Lexa tried, she really did, to understand Clarke's art. She listened intently when Clarke rambled about shading and colors and the importance of negative space. She went to every one of Clarke's gallery's. Popped champagne for the first piece she ever sold. Sat still for hours when Clarke wanted a muse. But she could never really grasp what drove Clarke to such heights, what gave her the passion to create, what she saw in all the lines and swirls. On very rare occasions she could come close but she never lived inside the piece like Clarke could. Most of the time Lexa was just to logical, to in her own need for complete sense, to get it. She didn't get how a bunch of colors could be romantic, or how a flower could make Clarke sad and she definitely didn't get how this was beautiful.

"Clarke….what the hell is this? No," She shook her head minutely, careful of her migraine, "I know what it is. That much is obvious. Why is it hanging in my office? Someone could see this!"

Clarke didn't—possibly couldn't—tear her eyes away from the photo. They were large and glittering with amazement, making the light blue even more captivating than usual. She was enraptured by this piece.

"Because. I wanted to hang it in our room but I didn't want to wake you up…" She trailed off as she slipped from the desk to the floor and let the blanket slide from her shoulders, carefully moving closer to the photo. Lexa claimed her seat atop the desk, watching Clarke with a frown.

"Why is it hanging at all?"

Clarke hummed quietly—as if that were a response!—and reached up to touch her finger to the photo, tracing the tattoo on Lexa's arm.

"Clarke."

She moved her finger to Lexa's pinched brows, leaning closer to inspect it better.

"Clarke. Answer me."

Finally she turned away, looking at her for the first time this morning. The awe gave way to merriment, eyes warm and tender as they always were when directed towards Lexa. She smiled and this was a brightness that didn't hurt Lexa's throbbing brain.

"Because it's a master piece Lexa! _Look at it_. I'll never, as long as I live, capture something this beautiful again."

A blush warmed her face and, not for the first time, she was grateful for the dusky hue of her skin that would hide it fairly well.

"That's….very flattering Clarke but I'd rather you not hang…porn. Let alone in my office. Where I grade papers—I'll never be able to consternate with that thing hanging there."

Clarke emitted a squeak of a sound that was drenched in hurt. The noise settled right between Lexa's ribs and pressed, sharply, into her heart. She reached out to rectify her unintended insult but Clarke stepped back, still looking pained but also mildly annoyed.

"It's _not_ porn, Lexa. How can you say that? It's art!" Lexa looked back to the photo of herself, at her hardened nipples, the sheen of sweat giving her skin a light shine, the dark hickies lining her throat and Clarke's hand between her legs. Then back to Clarke's earnest face.

"Clarke, that is the definition of porn."

"Lexa!" Clarke sounded exasperated, "Don't be so close minded."

"I think that I can safely say, I'm not being close minded. That is, after all, a picture of us having sex."

" Lexa, it's not. It's so much more than what you're looking at. It's," She blew out a shaky breath full of wonder when she turned back to the photo, "It's you."

Lexa licked her dry lips with a resolute nod, "I know it is. I can tell."

"No, babe, it's _you_."

"Clarke….I know it's me."

Clarke blew out a breath between her teeth and shuffled anxiously, glancing between the photo and Lexa. This was common between them because Lexa didn't get it a lot and Clarke always wanted her to, so desperately. Normally Clarke ran it over in her head for ways she could explain it so Lexa could understand and Lexa found the act endearing. This time, Lexa simply sat confused because how could Clarke ever sell this off as art? She wrapped the blood red comforter tighter around her shoulders, pursing her lips skeptically. That gave Clarke pause, her beautiful eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Are you thinking about taking this down?"

"Obviously. It can't stay. What if someone walks in here and sees it?"

Clarke folded her arms across her chest, "I will never forgive you if you do."

Lexa let out a long, drawn out sigh and shook her head. The artist in Clarke could be so dramatic sometimes. Or perhaps that was just Clarke.

"I think that you are wanting to start a war over something stupid. We were drunk, you took a picture of us having sex, and you hung it on a wall. That doesn't make it art."

That was clearly the wrong thing to say. The blue of her eyes lit with a bold fire and she took two long strides towards Lexa so she could poke her—roughly, might she add—right in the chest. And yes, Clarke was now very clearly upset with her and that should make Lexa back down and give in. But Lexa had always been in love with the passion burning bright in Clarke's soul and that passion, no matter what form, drove her wild. She swallowed roughly and barely held her face against Clarke's enlivened fury.

"It _is_ art. Nothing I have done can come close to this. And I'll prove it to you."

"How?" She cursed the wobble to her voice. Clarke latched onto it, knowing Lexa better than most anyone in this world. She smoothed her palm across her chest, soothing the small pain from the rough jab, and tapped her throat lightly. Her eyes softened but were no less intense as they gazed at one another.

"Art is a story Lexa," She explained as she has so many, many times before, "you just have to look for what it's trying to tell you."

She glanced at the photo, trying to drink it in the way Clarke had been all morning, but only saw porn. Clarke seemed to see this without words and moved away, back to the photo, and reached to touch it. Her finger dragged across Lexa's thumb pressed into her lip.

"The first few times we had sex, you covered your mouth with your hand to quiet all the noises you were making. When I asked you why, you told me it was just reflex. You had gotten use to being quiet when you were in high school to hide your secret from your parents. You didn't want them to know what you were doing; what you were. This," she touched Lexa's parted lips, "is how we've grown together. You trust me now. The more I've loved you, the more you've loved me and you don't hide anymore. That's precious to me Lexa."

Clarke reached higher to the dark swirls of Lexa's hungry eyes, passing the pads of her fingers over them lightly, reverently. From her seat she could hear Clarke's sharp intake of air and the slow, trembling exhale.

"When we make love…well. Most people can hardly keep their eyes open and, with me, can you blame them?" She cracked a cheeky grin that she flashed at Lexa for but a second before allowing the photo to capture her once more, "but when we make love…no matter if it's even for a second, you always make sure to look at me. And I drown in the color of your eyes each time. The absolute love…you're never guarded in that split second the way that you are in every day life. I know you can't say it, you can barely do much except make those sounds that melt me. So you look at me like this and, Jesus, it makes my bones ache Lexa. I'm hungry for the way you love me when I'm unreeling you. For _this_." She taps the intense look in Lexa's eyes once more, emphasizing unnecessarily just what _this_ was.

She drew her finger down the defined line of her abdominal muscles, a fond smile on her lips.

"This is the way that you love me. You carve your body to fit the jagged pieces of mine, molding yourself over years worth of time so that there can be no space between us. You have always been an aloof person, hard to break through and harder to pull out. You're stone walls and stone faces. But your body…it's soft and pliant for me. You give yourself up to be worshiped. You press the hard lines and soft curves of your body against my hands and give it all away. You crumble in our bed and the rubble is breathtaking. Like this, everything is out in the open and I love that so much. Mostly because it's really fucking annoying to try and get you to admit to anything. Do you know how long it took for you to tell me you loved me after I said it? So frustrating." She shook her head with a huff but her eyes were sparkling and she was smiling sweetly, all love and happiness.

"You're ticklish. Along your ribs. And the way you burst with laughter when I touch there is like watching the sun rise. It's vibrant and all encompassing, filling me to the brim with a heady warmth that lifts my soul. Jesus, it's my passion Lexa. I can never explain to you just exactly what it does to hear you laugh; the way your chest heaves for air, the way you defend yourself lamely. I know you hate it but you never grab my hands to stop me, never try to take it away from me because you can tell how much I enjoy it. Because that's you Lexa. You give everything to me, sometimes even at your own cost. I love you like I love art. Enthusiastically, in ways that doesn't always make sense even to me because it's more feeling than understanding. In bright colors and soft tones. With my hands. But you love me like history. You take it all and you put it down, remembering it and saving it for later to relive again and again. Fiercely, like it's a war to be remembered, ravaging across the expanse of my skin. Generously, as it's the precious gift of knowledge to be offered to an eager mind.

"You're tattoos rock me and rattle me apart at the seems. As if you aren't enough already you have art settled beneath you're skin. Swirls and designs that speak to you. That's how I know that, no matter how much you say you can't get it, you do. Just a little. Because you feel it. The swirls across your bicep, the line of patterns framing your spine, the non sense language you created with your sister when you were a kid across the tops of your thighs. And my favorite," She touched the tattoo in the photo, the one located just above her heart, "this one. Because I gave it to you. The first time we got drunk together you told me to give you a tattoo. You said you wanted me in your skin because I was already underneath it. And that was only our fourth date but I knew in that instant that I was in love with you. It was supposed to be my name. Drunk Lexa makes the worst decisions. But drunk Clarke is kind of an idiot and I accidentally tattooed your own name instead of mine because yours was being chanted inside my head like an anthem. I was full with you. So now you have a tattoo of your own name in terrible font and every time I see it I remember the day I fell in love with you.

"You're hips are the softest parts of you. And not even them but the small definition between your hips and where your stomach tapers down between your thighs. When I touch you there you become so soft Lexa. You keen and arch and reach for me, begging and fulfilled all in one. You grow so content when I drag my mouth along those lines. You know I'm this close to fulfilling your desires. You fall boneless into the bed. You also grow restless. You reach for me and dig your fingers into my scalp, urge me down. You are at war when I'm here and it's beautiful as it is soft. The rough exterior you dress yourself in fades away and you're open, tender and exposed, to my every advance. You don't know how I desire that moment. You don't know how, even when you have me first, I can't wait to flip you onto your back so I can go there. How I burn each time I undress you for the small span of seconds in which I exist against the lines of your sex, not close enough but just so perfect.

"Lexa you—"

"Clarke." Lexa choked out her love's name, barely able to form the word around the massive ball of emotions lodged in her throat. Listening to Clarke explain the photo through her eyes was making Lexa's own burn. She swallowed roughly and stood from the desk to move to Clarke. She didn't turn from the photo but she fell silent after being interrupted. Lexa enveloped her from behind, needing to touch her girlfriend badly. She sank into her, arms wrapping tightly around her hips and dropped her chin onto Clarke's shoulder.

"Clarke."She whispered, unable to say anything else. She didn't know how. But Clarke knew her and seemed to know what she wasn't saying. Her hands came up to overlap Lexa's on her hips, a contented hum vibrating low in her throat.

"Lexa. This is you. This is a photo of all the things I fall in love with every day. This is the photo of a woman who is also a galaxy; a galaxy my existence stands upon and a world that my life revolves around. This is my greatest moment and my greatest weakness. This is our love, pure and raw. Primal and feverish. Jesus Lexa…this is the thing that makes me crazed for sex so often. This is why I can never get enough. You are so beautiful in this moment—every moment you come undone—that it makes me grit my teeth and close my eyes. It makes me pray to any and all Gods, 'please, please, just give me one more year with her. If not, just one more moment like this'. This is why I wake every morning with a smile on my face, this is why I can find beauty in everything, this is why I'm an artist. This is a photo of all the things that fill my heart. This is you Lexa and it's also me. Because without you, there really wouldn't be a me. This is our love Lexa. And it's fucking _perfect_."

A silence fell over the room as the last of Clarke's words faded away. The silence was full of a moment between them. Their eyes both looking at the photo, Clarke's still awed like before, and Lexa's now opened to what was truly before her. She'd been wrong to cast it off as porn, judging it for what it first looked like. But she was grateful she had or she never would have known what it was Clarke saw when she looked at it. Lexa's heart felt fit to burst from her chest. She knew—of course she knew—that Clarke loved her but not until now did she realize just how deeply. Even after all their years together, after their trials in college, after the stress of coming out to everyone, she still loved Lexa like it was fresh.

"Fine," She finally spoke, voice rough with poorly concealed emotion, "you can keep it. But it can't stay in here. Your mother is always finding some excuse to come in here and snoop around. I'd have to kill her if she saw this."

Clarke practically rattled with excitement. She spun in Lexa's arms and wrapped her arms tightly around her neck, fingers digging into her shoulder blades.

"Fuck yes! I knew you'd see it my way," She pulled away with that crooked smirk of hers that never failed to enchant Lexa, "I knew it. Okay. So you can go shower because you smell like sex and not in a hot way. I'm gonna make us some waffles then we can go down the block to that little art shop I love and get a frame for this. I want to hang it in our room but I also kind of want it in my studio. It's totally inspiring. Will you help me hang it up? I can't wait to show Raven. She's going to love this."

Lexa sighed. She should have known.

"Yes to helping you, double yes to waffles, fine to the shop as long as we stop at Anya's café for hangover liquid, no to the studio and a big no to showing Raven," Lexa hooked her fingers into the front of Clarke's yoga pants and tugged at them until their fronts were flush again, "And yes to the shower but only if you join me." She pressed a light kiss to Clarke's beauty mark, catching some of her plump upper lip. The blond hummed contentedly, lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and nodded minutely.

"Deal. Let's go make some more art."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
